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^  CHILD'S  JOURNEY 
WITH  DICKENS 


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'    K^TE>  T>OU(MaL8  WIGGIM 


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A    CHILD'S    JOURNEY 
WITH     DICKENS 


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A  CHILD'S 

JOURNEY  WITH 

DICKENS 

BY 
KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

I912 


COPYRIGHT,   I912,  BY   KATE  DOUGLAS  RZGG8 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  March  igia 


fldc^t 


«  •  t  •  • 
•  •  t  «  c 
t  *     •    *  ( 


A     CHILD'S    JOURNEY 
WITH     DICKENS 


THE  CHILD 


•     tec 


-a—  -j-T     I  T  I, 


A    CHILD'S   JOURNEY 
WITH    DICKENS 

WHEN  I  was  a  little  girl  (I  al- 
ways think  that  these  words,  in 
precisely  this  juxtaposition,  are  six  of  the 
most  charming  in  the  language)  — when 
I  was  a  little  girl,  I  lived,  between  the 
ages  of  six  and  sixteen,  in  a  small  vil- 
lage in  Maine.  My  sister  and  I  had  few 
playmates,  but  I  cannot  remember  that 
we  were  ever  dull,  for  dullness  in  a  child, 
as  in  a  grown  person,  means  lack  of 
dreams  and  visions,  and  those  we  had 
a-plenty.  We  were  fortunate,  too,  in  that 
our  house  was  on  the  brink  of  one  of 

[3] 


M119012 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

the  loveliest  rivers  in  the  w^orld.  When 
we  clambered  down  the  steep  bank  to 
the  little  cove  that  was  just  beneath  our 
bedroom  windows,  we  found  ourselves 
facing  a  sheet  of  crystal  water  as  quiet 
as  a  lake,  a  lake  from  the  shores  of 
which  we  could  set  any  sort  of  adventure 
afloat ;  yet  scarcely  three  hundred  feet 
away  was  a  roaring  waterfall,  —  a  baby 
Niagara,  —  which,  after  dashing  over  the 
dam  in  a  magnificent  tawny  torrent, 
spent  itself  in  a  wild  stream  that  made  a 
path  between  rocky  clifl^s  until  it  reached 
the  sea,  eight  miles  away.  No  child  could 
be  lonely  who  lived  on  the  brink  of 
such  a  river ;  and  then  we  had,  beside 
our  studies  and  our  country  sports,  our 

[4] 


WITH     DICKENS 


books,  which  were  the  dearest  of  all  our 
friends.  It  is  a  long  time  ago,  but  I  can 
see  very  clearly  a  certain  set  of  black 
walnut  book-shelves,  hanging  on  the 
wall  of  the  family  sitting-room.  There 
were  other  cases  here  and  there  through 
the  house,  but  I  read  and  re-read  the  par- 
ticular volumes  in  this  one  from  year  to 
year,  and  a  strange,  motley  collection 
they  were,  to  be  sure !  On  the  top  shelf 
were  George  Sand's  "Teverino,**  **Ty- 
pee,'*  "  Undine,*'  Longfellow's  and  By- 
ron's "  Poems,"  "  The  Arabian  Nights," 
Bailey's  "  Festus,"  "  The  Lamplighter," 
''Scottish  Chiefs,"  Thackeray's  "Book 
of  Snobs,"  "Ivanhoe,"  and  the  "Life 
of  P.  T.  Barnum."   This  last  volume,  I 

Is] 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

may  say,  did  not  represent  the  literary 
inclinations  of  my  parents,  but  had  been 
given  me  on  my  birthday  by  a  grateful 
neighbor  for  saving  the  life  of  a  valuable 
Jersey  calf  tethered  on  the  too  steep 
slopes  of  our  river  bank.  The  "  Life  of 
Barnum"  was  the  last  book  on  the  het- 
erogeneous top  shelf,  and  on  the  one  next 
below  were  most  of  the  novels  of  Charles 
Dickens,  more  eagerly  devoured  than  all 
the  rest,  although  no  book  in  the  case 
had  escaped  a  second  reading  save  Bailey's 
"Festus,"  a  little  of  which  went  a  very 
long  way  with  us. 

It  seems  to  me  that  no  child  nowa- 
days has  time  to  love  an  author  as  the 
children  and  young  people  of  that  gen- 
[6] 


WITH     DICKENS 


eration  loved  Dickens ;  nor  do  I  think 
that  any  living  author  of  to-day  provokes 
love  in  exactly  the  same  fashion.  From 
our  yellow  dog,  Pip,  to  the  cat,  the  ca- 
nary, the  lamb,  the  cow,  down  to  all  the 
hens  and  cocks,  almost  every  living  thing 
was  named,  sooner  or  later,  after  one  of 
Dickens's  characters ;  while  my  favorite 
sled,  painted  in  brown,  with  the  title  in 
brilliant  red  letters,  was  "The  Artful 
Dodger.'*  Why  did  we  do  it  ?  We  little 
creatures  couldn't  have  suspected  that 
"the  democratic  movement  in  literature 
had  come  to  town,"  as  Richard  White- 
ing  says,  nevertheless  we  responded  to  it 
vigorously,  ardently,  and  swelled  the 
hero's  public. 

[7] 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

For  periodical  literature  we  had  in  our 
household  "  Harper*s  Magazine'*  and 
"Littell's  Living  Age/*  but  we  never 
read  newspapers,  so  that  there  was  a  mo- 
ment of  thrilling  excitement  when  my 
mother,  looking  up  from  the  "  Portland 
Press,"  told  us  that  Mr.  Dickens  was 
coming  to  America,  and  that  he  was  even 
then  sailing  from  England.  I  remember 
distinctly  that  I  prayed  for  him  fervently 
several  times  during  the  next  week,  that 
the  voyage  might  be  a  safe  one,  and  that 
even  the  pangs  of  seasickness  might  be 
spared  so  precious  a  personage.  In  due 
time  we  heard  that  he  had  arrived  in  New 
York,  and  had  begun  the  series  of  read- 
ings from  his  books ;  then  he  came  to 

[  M 


WITH     DICKENS 


Boston,  which  was  still  nearer,  and  then 
—  day  of  unspeakable  excitement !  —  we 
learned  that  he  had  been  prevailed  upon 
to  give  one  reading  in  Portland,  which 
was  only  sixteen  miles  away  from  our 
village. 

It  chanced  that  my  mother  was  taking 
me  to  Charlestown,  Massachusetts,  to  pay 
a  visit  to  an  uncle  on  the  very  day  after 
the  one  appointed  for  the  great  event  in 
Portland.  She,  therefore,  planned  to  take 
me  into  town  the  night  before,  and  to 
invite  the  cousin,  at  whose  house  we  were 
to  sleep,  to  attend  the  reading  with  her. 
I  cannot  throw  a  more  brilliant  light  on 
the  discipline  of  that  period  than  to  say 
that  the  subject  of  my  attending  the  read- 

[9] 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

ing  was  never  once  mentioned.  The  price 
of  tickets  was  supposed  to  be  almost  pro- 
hibitory. I  cannot  remember  the  exact 
sum ;  I  only  know  that  it  was  mentioned 
with  bated  breath  in  the  village  of  Hollis, 
and  that  there  was  a  general  feeling  in 
the  community  that  any  one  who  paid 
it  would  have  to  live  down  a  reputation 
for  riotous  extravagance  forever  after- 
ward. I  neither  wailed  nor  wept,  nor 
made  any  attempt  to  set  aside  the  pa- 
rental decrees  (which  were  anything  but 
severe  in  our  family),  but  if  any  martyr 
in  Fox*s  **  Book  '*  ever  suffered  more 
poignant  anguish  than  I,  I  am  heartily 
sorry  for  him ;  yet  my  common  sense  as- 
sured me  that  a  child  could  hardly  hope 


WITH     DICKENS 


to  be  taken  on  a  week's  junketing  to 
Charlestown,  and  expect  any  other  en- 
tertainment to  be  added  to  it  for  years  to 
come.  The  definition  of  a  "pleasure  "  in 
the  State  of  Maine,  county  of  York,  vil- 
lage of  Hollis,  year  of  our  Lord  1868, 
was  something  that  could  not  reasonably 
occur  too  often  without  being  cheapened. 
The  days,  charged  with  suppressed 
excitement,  flew  by.  I  bade  good-bye 
to  my  little  sister,  who  was  not  to  share 
my  metropolitan  experiences,  and  my 
mother  and  I  embarked  for  Portland  on 
the  daily  train  that  dashed  hither  and 
thither  at  the  rate  of  about  twelve  miles 
an  hour.  When  the  august  night  and 
moment  arrived,  my  mother  and   her 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

cousin  set  out  for  the  Place,  and  the 
moment  they  were  out  of  sight  I  slipped 
out  of  the  door  and  followed  them, 
traversing  quickly  the  three  or  four 
blocks  that  separated  me  from  the  old 
City  Hall  and  the  Preble  House,  where 
Dickens  was  stopping.  I  gazed  at  all 
the  windows  and  all  the  entrances  of 
both  buildings  without  beholding  any 
trace  of  my  hero.  I  watched  the  throng 
of  happy,  excited,  lucky  people  crowd- 
ing their  way  into  the  hall,  and  went 
home  in  a  chastened  mood  to  bed, — 
a  bed  which,  as  soon  as  I  got  into  it, 
was  crowded  with  Little  Nell  and  the 
Marchioness,  Florence  Dombey,  Bella 
Wilfer,  Susan  Nipper,  and  Little  Em'ly. 

[12] 


WITH     DICKENS 


There  were  other  dreams,  too.  Not 
only  had  my  idol  provided  me  with  hu- 
man friends,  to  love  and  laugh  and  weep 
over,  but  he  had  wrought  his  genius 
into  things ;  so  that,  waking  or  sleeping, 
every  bunch  of  holly  or  mistletoe,  every 
plum  pudding  was  alive ;  every  crutch 
breathed  of  Tiny  Tim;  every  cricket 
and  every  singing,  steaming  kettle  had 
a  soul. 

The  next  morning  we  started  on  our 
railroad  journey,  which  I  remember  as 
one  being  full  of  excitement  from  the 
beginning,  for  both  men  and  women 
were  discussing  the  newspapers  with  ex- 
traordinary interest,  the  day  before  hav- 
ing been  the  one  on  which  the  President 

[13] 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

of  the  United  States  had  been  formally 
impeached.  When  the  train  stopped 
for  two  or  three  minutes  at  North  Ber- 
wick, the  people  on  the  side  of  the  car 
next  the  station  suddenly  arose  and 
looked  eagerly  out  at  some  object  of 
apparent  interest.  I  was  not,  at  any 
age,  a  person  to  sit  still  in  her  seat 
when  others  were  looking  out  of  win- 
dows, and  my  small  nose  was  quickly 
flattened  against  one  of  the  panes.  There 
on  the  platform  stood  the  Adored  One ! 
His  hands  were  plunged  deep  in  his 
pockets  (a  favorite  gesture),  but  pre- 
sently one  was  removed  to  wave  away 
laughingly  a  piece  of  the  famous  Ber- 
wick sponge  cake,  offered  him  by  Mr. 


WITH     DICKENS 


Osgood,  of  Boston,  his  travelling  com- 
panion and  friend. 

I  knew  him  at  once  !  —  the  smiling, 
genial,  mobile  face,  rather  highly  col- 
ored, the  brilliant  eyes,  the  watch  chain, 
the  red  carnation  in  the  button-hole, 
and  the  expressive  hands,  much  given  to 
gesture.  It  was  only  a  momentary  view, 
for  the  train  started,  and  Dickens  van- 
ished, to  resume  his  place  in  the  car 
next  to  ours,  where  he  had  been,  had  I 
known  it,  ever  since  we  left  Portland. 

When  my  mother  was  again  occupied 
with  her  book,  I  slipped  away  and  en- 
tered the  next  car.  I  took  a  humble,  un- 
occupied seat  near  the  end,  close  by  the 
much  patronized  tank  of  (unsterilized) 

[»5] 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

drinking-water,  and  the  train-boy's  bas- 
ket of  popcorn  balls  and  molasses  candy, 
and  gazed  steadily  at  the  famous  man, 
who  was  chatting  busily  with  Mr.  Os- 
good. I  remembered  gratefully  that  my 
mother  had  taken  the  old  ribbons  off  my 
gray  velvet  hat  and  tied  me  down  with 
blue  under  the  chin,  and  I  thought,  if 
Dickens  should  happen  to  rest  his  eye 
upon  me,  that  he  could  hardly  fail  to  be 
pleased  with  the  effect  of  the  blue  rib- 
bon that  went  under  my  collar  and  held 
a  very  small  squirrel  muff  in  place.  Un- 
fortunately, however,  his  eye  never  did 
meet  mine,  but  some  family  friends  es- 
pied me,  and  sent  me  to  ask  my  mother 
to  come  in  and  sit  with  them.  I  brought 
[  i6] 


WITH     DICKENS 


her  back,  and  fortunately  there  was  not 
room  enough  for  me  with  the  party,  so 
I  gladly  resumed  my  modest  seat  by  the 
popcorn  boy,  where  I  could  watch  Dick- 
ens, quite  unnoticed.  There  is  an  Indian 
myth  which  relates  that  when  the  gaze 
of  the  Siva  rested  for  the  first  time  on 
Tellatonea,  the  most  beautiful  of  women, 
his  desire  to  see  her  was  so  great  that  his 
body  became  all  eyes.  Such  a  trans- 
formation, I  fear,  was  perilously  near  to 
being  my  fate !  Half  an  hour  passed,  per- 
haps, and  one  gentleman  after  another 
came  from  here  or  there  to  exchange  a 
word  of  greeting  with  the  famous  nov- 
elist, so  that  he  was  never  for  a  moment 
alone,  thereby  inciting  in  my  breast  my 

[  »7] 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

first,  and  about  my  last,  experience  of  the 
passion  of  jealousy.  Suddenly,  however, 
Mr.  Osgood  arose,  and  with  an  apology 
went  into  the  smoking-car.  I  never  knew 
how  it  happened ;  I  had  no  plan,  no  pre- 
paration, no  intention,  no  provocation; 
but  invisible  ropes  pulled  me  out  of  my 
seat,  and,  speeding  up  the  aisle,  I  planted 
myself  timorously  down,  an  unbidden 
guest,  in  the  seat  of  honor.  I  had  a 
moment  to  recover  my  equanimity,  for 
Dickens  was  looking  out  of  the  window, 
but  he  turned  in  a  moment,  and  said 
with  justifiable  surprise :  — 

"  God  bless  my  soul,  where  did  you 
come  from?" 

"  I  came  from  Hollis,  Maine,"  I  stam- 
[  i8] 


WITH     DICKENS 


mered,  "  and  I  'm  going  to  Charlestown 
to  visit  my  uncle.  My  mother  and  her 
cousin  went  to  your  reading  last  night, 
but,  of  course,  three  could  n't  go  from 
the  same  family,  so  I  stayed  at  home. 
Nora,  that's  my  little  sister,  stayed  at 
home  too.  She 's  too  small  to  go  on  a 
journey,  but  she  wanted  to  go  to  the  read- 
ing dreadfully.  There  was  a  lady  there 
who  had  never  heard  of  Betsey  Trot- 
wood,  and  had  only  read  two  of  your 
books!" 

"  Well,  upon  my  word !  "  he  said ; 
**you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you  have 
read  them !  " 

"Of  course  I  have,"  I  replied  ;  "every 
one  of  them  but  the  two  that  we  are 

[  19] 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

going  to  buy  in  Boston,  and  some  of 
them  six  times/* 

"  Bless  my  soul !  "  he  ejaculated  again. 
"  Those  long  thick  books,  and  you  such 
a  slip  of  a  thing/' 

"  Of  course,"  I  explained  conscien- 
tiously, "  I  do  skip  some  of  the  very  dull 
parts  once  in  a  while ;  not  the  short  dull 
parts,  but  the  long  ones/' 

He  laughed  heartily.  "  Now,  that  is 
something  that  I  hear  very  little  about," 
he  said.  "  I  distinctly  want  to  learn 
more  about  those  very  dull  parts."  And 
whether  to  amuse  himself,  or  to  amuse 
me,  I  do  not  know,  he  took  out  a  note- 
book and  pencil  from  his  pocket  and 
proceeded  to  give  me  an  exhausting  and 

[  20] 


WITH     DICKENS 


exhaustive  examination  on  this  subject ; 
the  books  in  which  the  dull  parts  pre- 
dominated; and  the  characters  and  sub- 
jects which  principally  produced  them. 
He  chuckled  so  constantly  during  this 
operation  that  I  could  hardly  help  be- 
lieving myself  extraordinarily  agreeable, 
so  I  continued  dealing  these  infant  blows, 
under  the  delusion  that  I  was  flinging 
him  bouquets. 

It  was  not  long  before  one  of  my 
hands  was  in  his,  and  his  arm  around 
my  waist,  while  we  talked  of  many 
things.  They  say,  I  believe,  that  his 
hands  were  "undistinguished"  in  shape, 
and  that  he  wore  too  many  rings.  Well, 
those  criticisms  must  come  from  persons 

[21    ] 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 


who  never  felt  the  warmth  of  his  hand- 
clasp !  For  my  part,  I  am  glad  that  Pull- 
man chair  cars  had  not  come  into  fash- 
ion, else  I  should  never  have  experienced 
the  delicious  joy  of  snuggling  up  to  Gen- 
ius, and  of  being  distinctly  encouraged 
in  the  attitude. 

I  wish  I  could  recall  still  more  of  his 
conversation,  but  I  was  too  happy,  too 
exhilarated,  and  too  inexperienced  to 
take  conscious  notes  of  the  interview.  I 
remember  feeling  that  I  had  never  known 
anybody  so  well  and  so  intimately,  and 
that  I  talked  with  him  as  one  talks  under 
cover  of  darkness  or  before  the  flickering 
light  of  a  fire.  It  seems  to  me,  as  I  look 
back  now,  and  remember  how  the  little 

[  "J 


WITH     DICKENS 


soul  of  me  came  out  and  sat  in  the  sun- 
shine of  his  presence,  that  I  must  have 
had  some  premonition  that  the  child,  who 
would  come  to  be  one  of  the  least  of 
writers,  was  then  talking  with  one  of  the 
greatest;  —  talking,  too,  of  the  author's 
profession  and  high  calling.  All  the  little 
details  of  the  meeting  stand  out  as  clearly 
as  though  it  had  happened  yesterday.  I 
can  see  every  article  of  his  clothing  and 
of  my  own ;  the  other  passengers  in  the 
car ;  the  landscape  through  the  window, 
and  above  all  the  face  of  Dickens,  deeply 
lined,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  an  amused, 
waggish  smile  that  curled  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  under  his  grizzled  moustache. 
A  part  of  our  conversation  was  given  to 

[23l 


A    CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

a  Boston  newspaper  next  day,  by  the  au- 
thor himself,  or  by  Mr.  Osgood,  and  a 
little  more  was  added  a  few  years  after 
by  an  old  lady  who  sat  in  the  next  seat 
to  us.  (The  pronoun  "  us  "  seems  ridicu- 
lously intimate,  but  I  have  no  doubt  I 
used  it,  quite  unabashed,  at  that  date.) 

"What  book  of  mine  do  you  like 
best?"  Dickens  asked,  I  remember;  and 
I  answered,  "Oh,  I  like  David  Copper- 
field  much  the  best.  That  is  the  one  I 
have  read  six  times.*' 

"  Six  times,  —  good,  good  ! "  he  re- 
plied ;  "  I  am  glad  that  you  like  Davy, 
so  do  I ;  —  I  like  it  best,  too  !  '*  clapping 
his  hands;  and  that  was  the  only  remark 
he  made  which  attracted  the  attention 

[24] 


WITH     DICKENS 


of  the  other  passengers,  who  looked  in 
our  direction  now  and  then,  I  have  been 
told,  smiling  at  the  interview,  but  pre- 
serving its  privacy  with  the  utmost  friend- 
liness. 

"  Of  course,"  I  added,  "  I  almost  said 
'Great  Expectations,'  because  that  comes 
next.  We  named  our  little  yellow  dog 
Mr.  Pip.  They  told  father  he  was  part 
rat  terrier,  and  we  were  all  so  pleased. 
Then  one  day  father  showed  him  a  trap 
with  a  mouse  in  it.  The  mouse  wiggled 
its  tail  just  a  little,  and  Pip  was  so  fright- 
ened that  he  ran  under  the  barn  and 
stayed  the  rest  of  the  day.  Then  all  the 
neighbors  made  fun  of  him,  and  you  can 
think  how  Nora  and  I  love  him  when 

[  25  ] 


A     CHILD^S     JOURNEY 


he  *s  had  such  a  hard  time,  just  like  Pip 
in  'Great  Expectations' !  " 

Here  again  my  new  friend's  mirth  was 
delightful  to  behold,  so  much  so  that 
my  embarrassed  mother,  who  had  been 
watching  me  for  half  an  hour,  almost 
made  up  her  mind  to  drag  me  away  be- 
fore the  very  eyes  of  our  fellow  passengers. 
I  had  never  been  thought  an  amusing 
child  in  the  family  circle ;  what  then, 
could  I  be  saying  to  the  most  distin- 
guished and  popular  author  in  the 
universe  ? 

"  We  have  another  dog,"  I  went  on, 
**  and  his  name  is  Mr.  Pocket.  We  were 
playing  with  Pip,  who  is  a  smooth  dog, 
one  day,  when  a  shaggy  dog  came  along 

[  26] 


WITH     DICKENS 


that  did  n't  belong  to  anybody,  and  had  n*t 
any  home.  He  liked  Pip  and  Pip  liked 
him,  so  we  kept  him,  and  named  him 
Pocket  after  Pip's  friend.  The  real  Mr. 
Pip  and  Mr.  Pocket  met  first  in  Miss 
Havisham's  garden,  and  they  had  such  a 
funny  fight  it  always  makes  father  laugh 
till  he  can't  read !  Then  they  became 
great  friends.  Perhaps  you  remember 
Mr.  Pip  and  Mr.  Pocket?"  And  Dickens 
thought  he  did,  which,  perhaps,  is  not 
strange,  considering  that  he  was  the  au- 
thor of  their  respective  beings.  Mr.  Harry 
Furniss  declares  that  "Great  Expecta- 
tions" was  Dickens's  favorite  novel,  but  I 
can  only  say  that  to  me  he  avowed  his  spe- 
cial fondness  for  "  David  Coppcrfield." 

[  27] 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

"  Did  you  want  to  go  to  my  reading 
verymuch?**  was  another  question.  Here 
was  a  subject  that  had  never  once  been 
touched  upon  in  all  the  past  days,  —  a 
topic  that  stirred  the  very  depths  of  my 
disappointment  and  sorrow,  fairly  chok- 
ing me,  and  making  my  lip  tremble  by 
its  unexpectedness,  as  I  faltered,  "  Tes; 
more  than  tongue  can  tell*' 

I  looked  up  a  second  later,  when  I  was 
sure  that  the  tears  in  my  eyes  were  not 
going  to  fall,  and  to  my  astonishment  saw 
that  Dickens*s  eyes  were  in  precisely  the 
same  state  of  moisture.  That  was  a  never- 
to-be-forgotten  moment,  although  I  was 
too  young  to  appreciate  the  full  signifi- 
cance of  it. 

[  28] 


WITH     DICKENS 


"  Do  you  cry  when  you  read  out  loud?" 
I  asked  curiously.  "  We  all  do  in  our 
family.  And  we  never  read  about  Tiny 
Tim,  or  about  Steerforth  when  his  body 
is  washed  up  on  the  beach,  on  Saturday 
nights,  or  our  eyes  are  too  swollen  to  go 
to  Sunday  School.** 

"  Yes,  I  cry  when  I  read  about  Steer- 
forth,"  he  answered  quietly,  and  I  felt 
no  astonishment. 

"  We  cry  the  worst  when  it  says,  *  All 
the  men  who  carried  him  had  known 
him  and  gone  sailing  with  him,  and  seen 
him  merry  and  bold,*  **  I  said,  growing 
very  tearful  in  reminiscence. 

We  were  now  fast  approaching  our 
destination,  —  the  station  in  Boston, — 

[29  J 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 


and  the  passengers  began  to  collect  their 
wraps  and  bundles.  Mr.  Osgood  had  two 
or  three  times  made  his  appearance,  but 
had  been  waved  away  with  a  smile  by 
Dickens,  —  a  smile  that  seemed  to  say, 
—  "You  will  excuse  me,  I  know,  but 
this  child  has  the  right  of  way." 

"You  are  not  travelling  alone?'*  he 
asked,  as  he  arose  to  put  on  his  overcoat. 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  answered,  coming  down 
to  earth  for  the  first  time  since  I  had 
taken  my  seat  beside  him,  —  "  oh,  no, 
I  had  a  mother,  but  I  forgot  all  about 
her.'*  Whereupon  he  said,  — "  You  are 
a  passed-mistress  of  the  art  of  flattery!  ** 
But  this  remark  was  told  me  years  after- 
wards by  the  old  lady  who  was  sitting 

[  30] 


WITH     DICKENS 


in  the  next  seat,  and  who  overheard  as 
much  of  the  conversation  as  she  possibly 
could,  so  she  informed  me. 

Dickens  took  me  back  to  the  forgot- 
ten mother,  and  introduced  himself,  and 
I,  still  clinging  to  his  hand,  left  the  car 
and  walked  with  him  down  the  platform 
until  he  disappeared  in  the  carriage  with 
Mr.  Osgood,  leaving  me  with  the  feeling 
that  I  must  continue  my  existence  some- 
how in  a  dull  and  dreary  world. 

That  was  my  last  glimpse  of  him,  but 
pictures  made  in  childhood  are  painted 
in  bright  hues,  and  this  one  has  never 
faded.  The  child  of  to-day  would  hardly 
be  able  to  establish  so  instantaneous  a 
friendship.    She  would  have  heard  of 

[  3'   ] 


A     CHILD'S     JOURNEY 

celebrity  hunters  and  autograph  collect- 
ors and  be  self-conscious,  while  I  fol- 
lowed the  dictates  of  my  countrified 
little  heart,  and  scraped  acquaintance 
confidently  with  the  magician  who  had 
glorified  my  childhood  by  his  art. 

He  had  his  literary  weaknesses, 
Charles  Dickens,  but  they  were  all  dear, 
big,  attractive  ones,  virtues  grown  a  bit 
wild  and  rank.  Somehow  when  you  put 
him  —  with  his  elemental  humor,  his 
inexhaustible  vitality,  his  humanity,  sym- 
pathy, and  pity  —  beside  the  Impecca- 
bles,  he  always  looms  large !  Just  for  a 
moment,  when  the  heart  overpowers  the 
reason,  he  even  makes  the  flawless  ones 
look  a  little  faded  and  colorless! 


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